huck

Grief


I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

with nobody crying,

yet you have eyes for me

under the tree, still,

clever waif.

I'm dreaming - with maybe just

a little crying

for the lengths gone to

to reproduce you. (It's a sighing

in the flurries, Mr Stewart.)

But the world outside my pane

shan't drain

the comfort of simple things:

a glowing hearth and a ringed hand

cupping a brave, warm pubis.

The next day: leftovers and

good news,

good news.